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Some generic night in some generic town. A generic storm is howling down generic streets. A generic person wakes up frightfully, staring down a hooded figure holding a scythe, which does not look generic at all.
You...you...you...are...the Grim Reaper? mumbles the frightened generic person Have you come for my soul?
Not at all, my dear fellow a wicked smiles forms inside the hood although it's a common mistake.
I am, in fact, a Brothel Keeper, but my friends call me Necropaxx.
The hooded figure winks its red eyes as it waves around what seems to be, under close inspection, a squeaky rubber scythe. Yes yes, I run a nice whorehouse for hippies down the road. Also, I make cheese. Sometime I put the cheese in the toaster. Sometimes I put my customers in the toaster. Oops, did I say that out loud?
The hooded figure leans more closely towards the generically frightened person, peering at him intently.
I believe you will do nicely with a nice glass of Bordeaux. Yes my dear fellow. I did not come for your soul, I came for your body. Medium rare.
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